CHAPTER XXIII
Joseline, who was worn out, both bodily and mentally, slept a sound and dreamless sleep, from which she was aroused by the sound of careful footsteps, a rustling of starched petticoats, and a gentle opening of heavy shutters. She stared about the unfamiliar, lofty room. Where was she? As her gaze fell on the pale satin counterpane, the dignified dressing-table, beyond it a tall housemaid in a stiff print gown, cautiously raising the window-blinds, she closed her eyes. Would she open them on her own little quarters in the cottage loft?—a room with a wooden bed and patchwork quilt, a rickety washstand, and one chair? No, no—and she sat erect among her pillows—it was not a dream; she was at home—her real home. Sleepily she watched the clever housemaid arrange her bath, and carry in her tea in a dainty canary-coloured service.
“At what time will you have your breakfast, my lady? Her ladyship said you would have it in your room.”
“At nine o’clock. Just a bit of anything that’s going—I’m partial to stirabout.”
“Very well, my lady.”
Enter Justine the maid, with her smart lace-trimmed apron and air of critical inquiry, who began to arrange and put away and take out things in a sort of stealthy silence. Presently she came forward and asked—
“When will your ladyship get up?”
“Oh, now,” she answered, “it’s all hours.”
“When shall I come back?”
“I can dress myself, thank ye.”
“But your hair, my lady?”
“Yes, I always do it meeself.”
“Then you will ring if you want me. I’ve left out your blue cloth; it”—pause—“fastens up the back.”
As Justine closed the door, her ladyship slid out of bed and ran, barefooted, to the window. Before her eyes lay a heavily timbered park, so large, that it gave her the impression of being boundless. A silvery frost sparkled on the grass. Beneath the window was a pleasure-garden with gravel walks and marble steps and statues, where three men with brooms and a barrow were languidly sweeping up the dead leaves. Somehow the stately spacious outlook, impressed Joseline, even more than the interior of the house.
When breakfast arrived, she was already dressed, all but the fastening of her gown, and, unaware of the enormity, she requested the housemaid “to give her a hook up.” Of course it was not Marston’s business, and she might get into trouble with Ma’mselle; but the new-comer had no idea of the hard and fast lines of domestic service—or indeed that there were any lines at all. After a hearty meal, Joseline ventured forth into the wide corridors, down a grand staircase, and was presently lost among the intricacies of an immense, rambling mansion. There were long passages, lined with sporting pictures, and covered with thick red carpets, where she encountered soft-footed men-servants, who stared and stood aside. She discovered a billiard-room, then, opening a swing door, a cloak-room, and suddenly found herself in what appeared to be the butler’s pantry, where two youths in shirt-sleeves seemed not a little startled by her visit. She had opened the wrong swing door, and, in beating a nervous retreat, came face to face with her father in shooting kit. He seemed surprised and pleased, as he exclaimed—
“Hullo! you early bird, what are you doing in this part of the house?”
“Faix, I believe I’ve lost me way. I wanted to find you, and—all the other people.”
“At any rate you’ve found me. I hope you are rested?”
“Yes, thank you. And where are the rest of them?”
“Scattered about. Some are playing golf, some are in bed. I’ve been interviewing the steward.” Then, as he ushered her through a doorway, “Would you like me to show you the house?”
“Yes, indeed; I would love it.”
To introduce Joseline to the home of her forefathers was a task after Lord Mulgrave’s own heart; he was a man of cultured tastes and a well-known collector. He had a fine show of old arms, old ivories, old cloisonné, some exquisite French cabinets, and the finest snuff-boxes in England. By degrees he piloted Joseline through a suite of reception-rooms, and showed her many rare and costly objects among his heirlooms and his treasures; he was eloquent over his relics of the Armada, his Sèvres cups, “Mary and William” tankards, and was conscious of a sharp spasm of disappointment, when he found that the object that claimed his companion’s admiration and awe was the stuffed brown bear, which held a cigar-tray in the billiard-room! In short, as far as knowledge and appreciation of art went, Joseline might be a child of six. In the red saloon, a room panelled with damask and pictures, she came to a halt before a fine painting of the Madonna and Child, which Lord Mulgrave had picked up at a curiosity-shop in Pisa; it was said to be a Raphael—at any rate, it was of his school.
Joseline gazed for some time, and then crossed herself devoutly.
“Oh, it is real beautiful,” she remarked at last—“a deal better than the one in Glenveigh Chapel. I wish they had the likes of it. An’ wouldn’t Father Daly be the proud man!” She paused, coloured, and exclaimed, “Oh, I was forgettin’.”
“Forgetting what?” inquired her father.
“I’m afraid my being a Catholic is a shockin’ upset; but I tell ye, for ye bid to know”—and she surveyed him with solemn eyes—“I’ll never change my religion.”
“No, of course not, my dear. It is true that our family have always been Church of England; but I am thankful that you have a religion; it is an uncommon possession in these days.”
Was he thinking of his wife, with her Sunday card-parties?
As they talked on many subjects, they were moving slowly down the saloon, and at the end, he came to a standstill. Lord Mulgrave had instinctively felt that there was no use in exhibiting the priceless Vandycks, Romneys, and Hoppners, to this uneducated child as yet; but here was a modern picture, bound to enchain her. Joseline looked up at a full-length painting of a lovely girl, robed in a filmy white gown, with delicate touches of blue. The portrait had been taken at a happy moment, and seemed to exhale the very breath of life and youth. No need to explain. Instinctively she was aware that she was face to face with her mother. The picture was a gem, the “chef d’œuvre” of a French artist who, like his model, had died young. The face was so vivid, so full of animation, it seemed to stand out from the canvas, as if alive. A truly speaking likeness! Joseline recognised her own shade of hair, the colour of her eyes, and brows—her very mouth—she was looking at herself as in a mirror.
“You are like her,” said Lord Mulgrave, in a low voice. “You can see it?”
“I am, in face,” she answered, with an effort. “But in mind and ways I’m just an awkward, common flahoola of a country girl!”
She had spoken the truth; her father could not contradict her. Again he was penetrated with the conviction that, with the refined face and figure of his beloved Joseline, the charming daughter beside him, had the manners and vocabulary of the Irish peasantry. (Unfortunately for Lord Mulgrave, his nature was dominated by the critical faculty.) Would she ever outgrow or live down her plebeian youth, and those twenty-one years of poverty and hardship, which yawned between her and him?
“Oh! you will improve,” he said, with a stifled sigh.
“I’m afraid I’m too old. However, I’ll try.”
“And here,” continued Lord Mulgrave, indicating a patrician individual in splendid uniform, “is your grandfather, the Duc de Hernoncourt.”
“Holy Moses! Fancy that my grandfather!” she murmured, staring into the face, “and him a duke, no less!”
“Yes; he had the royal blood of France in his veins. So”—looking at her steadily—“have you.”
“Is it me?” she repeated, opening her eyes. Then she burst out laughing. “Well, to think of that now! He looks terribly stiff and stand-off, does my grandfather, and as if he did not want to know the likes of me.”
“This is the little boudoir,” announced Lord Mulgrave, suddenly opening a door into a small, bright room, where a great wood fire blazed up the chimney. Before it was drawn a sofa, on which a recumbent figure lay extended at full length, displaying a generous view of red silk stockings and buckled shoes, the head buried among soft silk cushions; and when the head turned, it displayed the face of Tito—Tito with a cigarette between her lips, and a yellow paper-bound book in her hand.
“Hallo!”—suddenly sitting up. “Good morning, pater.” To Joseline: “So you are down?”
“Yes, long ago,” she replied. “I’m sorry you are sick. What ails you?”
“I sick? Certainly not! Pray why on earth should you think so?”
“Because you are lying stretched.”
“Oh, that’s nothing. I’m taking it easy. The Max girls and the men are playing a foursome, and I’m off duty”; and she snuggled down again, and replaced her cigarette.
“Duty reminds me that I’m to meet Ross, the head keeper, at eleven-thirty,” said Lord Mulgrave, “so I must be off; and I leave you two girls together. Tito will take you in hand, Joseline, and coach you a bit. I’ll see you at lunch.” And he went out.
“Sit down in that comfy chair,” said Tito, extending an authoritative cigarette, “and let us have a talk. I suppose the earl has been doing the grand tour. Tell me what do you think of the pictures? Aren’t they splendid?”
“Oh, yes,” she assented, without enthusiasm, “grand.”
“The Cavalier on the black horse is worth ten thousand pounds.”
“Holy saints! Did father pay all that money?”
“No, goosey. The Cavalier is an ancestor—a most valuable one, too. If he were mine, I’d sell him like a shot. They are all your ancestors.”
“How strange! I never heard the word itself spoken till last week. Where are the other people?”
“Mother is in bed; she never shows till lunch; she has her toilette, and her little dog, and her letters. Lady Max is an early bird, but she breakfasts in her boudoir; she has a mighty correspondence—political and philanthropic. The girls are out—both golf mad. Griselda is a champion; the rest of the crowd were only neighbours. There is another big spread to-night, and a shoot to-morrow.”
“Oh!”—and Joseline relapsed into silence, and sat staring at the fire.
“Now, come, let’s talk, and get to know one another,” said Tito briskly. “You begin.”
“Faix, it takes a long while to know people,” rejoined the other, in her soft, musical drawl.
“But in my case I become an intimate, or an enemy, within the first half-hour.”
“Faix, then, I hope you won’t become my enemy.”
“No—though of course I ought to, after your turning up, and giving me the back seat!”
Joseline became crimson, and looked uncomfortable and distressed.
“Bar jokes! I mean to do you a good turn, and tell you things.”
“I’ll be thankful to you, for I’m as ignorant as a young crow. What sort of things?”
“Family news, family politics, family secrets that you would take ages to discover. Also I’ll be your child’s guide and adviser—for though I expect you are only a couple of years younger than I am, I am old enough in worldly ways to be your grandmother. You call me Tito, of course.”
“Yes, of course. And your mother; what am I to call her?”
“Um,” muttered Tito into the stump of her cigarette.
“Um?” repeated her pupil. “Do you mean Mum?”
“No. I’m considering,” she answered, with half-shut eyes. “I’ll let you know later. Did you do your hair yourself?”
“Yes; av course I did. Why? Is it a holy show?”
“No; ripping! Tell me, has the earl said anything to you about money, or an allowance?”
“Yes. He said four hundred a year. It’s far too much.”
“Too much!” suddenly sitting erect. “Not half enough. You could never do with it—that is, if you are to be dressed. Why, look at me!”—gesticulating. “Do you see this serge gown I’ve on? It cost twenty guineas—not paid for yet. My shoes”—she flourished her pretty feet—“three guineas. As to my evening gowns, that wretch ‘Du Du’ won’t let me have anything under thirty-five pounds, and then it’s sham lace, and looks like a rag in a week! Do you know that my winter coat cost one hundred and twenty pounds? That makes a big hole in four hundred pounds. I’ve the same allowance too, and I’m drowned in debt.”
“You in debt? Why I thought it was only poor people that owed!”
“Well, I’m poor. I’ve nothing of my own but a hundred a year. Oh, I owe bills I simply dare not think of. Such piles—especially in Paris. Mother is even worse; she owes thousands! Of course, then there’s her bridge losings, and her new motor, and Monte Carlo and all that. When she married his lordship she had a thousand a year, and a little girl. She has the little girl still—but the thousand a year has departed.”
“But is not father rich?”
“Yes. Nothing much for all he has to keep up. He says he is a poor rich man. Lots of the farms are on his hands. There is the big London house, the villa at Cannes, this place, with fifty servants. And mother is a bad manager, and frightfully extravagant.”
“Well, av course I’ve always been poor, and twenty pounds seems a fortune. Tell me, Tito, why do ye spend so much on yer back?”
“Because I must be in the swim. One cannot be seen over and over in the same gown. When I go on a three days’ visit, I take at least a dozen frocks. Then, I’m plain—I require dressing. Now you could wear anything.”
“Is that so? or are ye joking?”
“Why, you know you are most awfully pretty! I say”—and she pulled up a cushion with a tug and selected a fresh cigarette—“don’t you feel a bit funny? Outside you look all right”—she paused and surveyed her companion critically, then resumed, “but how is your mind? How are you inside?”
“Faix, then I’ll tell you! I feel just as you would if, after being reared in grandeur all your life, you were suddenly struck down below stairs, among a pack of strangers, and told to scour the pots, and wash up dishes.”
“I’d be bound to smash everything before me.”
“That’s just how I feel,” said Joseline with fervour. “I’m sure to break lots of things.”
“You mean the laws of good manners. Well, you will soon learn; you see, you are a lady born.”
“But I’ve lived all my life as a working girl”—and she held out her hands. “I may be Lady Joseline to look at, but I’m just Mary Foley dressed up.”
“There is one thing you’ll break, my dear, and that is hearts.”
“Arrah, go on with you, and your blarney!”
“Go where?”—laughing. “I really wonder you were not married long ago.”
“Faix, there is more nor you wonders at that,” she answered sedately.
“Who pray?”
“Why, the boys I would not take!”
“Do tell me about them?”
“Augh, sure, they were only just common chaps.”
“What a providential mercy you did not take one of them! That would have been a fine complication!”
“Have you any chap, Tito?”
“Oh, heaps of a sort. Of course, I’ve played about.”
“What’s that?”
“Sitting in corners and writing little notes and having jokes, but nothing serious. Mother thinks it is time there was something serious; you see, I’m twenty-three”—and she blew a cloud. “And I’ve no looks or money; I’m only smart and bright and well turned out, and an A1 dancer and bridger.”
“What’s a bridger?”
“Oh, you poor dear innocent, you’ll soon know! Well, as I was saying, I’m not a very marketable article, and here you come and take all the wind out of my little sails.”
“There’s no fear of that! You can’t understand the dread I’m in of all the strange grand folk. When I think of things I’m scared; and as to the servants, I declare they just paralyse me!”
“How ridiculous! You must really learn to hold up your head and be self-confident.”
“I never could. Now, there’s your mother; she’s a real lady; any one can see that with half an eye.”
“Of course, mother comes of a good old family, and is proud; but she was only a parson’s daughter—second son—family living, you know?”
“No, I know nothing. I’ve heard of a living family, never of a family living. I’m afraid her ladyship will mislike me.”
“Oh no, she never mislikes any one; and don’t call her her ladyship, for mercy’s sake!”
“No; and I’ll be very thankful to you if you’ll correct me when I’m wrong. Now, tell me, what my father likes?”
“Peace, with a big P, and sport and books and pictures and curios. I am happy to add, he likes me.”
“And your mother?”
“Society, society, and again society—lots of nice boys, and smart married women without their husbands, married men without their wives. She adores bridge and cigarettes, motoring, and pretty clothes; she likes to give the best house-parties, and to feel that she is very popular. By-the-by, I wonder what Dudley will say to you?”
“Dudley? Oh, yes, I remember—father’s cousin. Do you like him?”
“Pretty well: he is decent enough. Mother adores him.”
“Why? Sure she is no relation!”
“No, if he were she might loathe him. She likes him because he is rich, and run after, and good-looking, and the next heir—and so deliciously casual and cool; and because”—here she took the pillow from beneath her head and thumped it vigorously—“she wishes him to marry”—a violent thump—“me!”
“Well, and why not?” inquired Joseline, in her tranquil voice. “I see they do draw down matches over here, with all their laughing at us in Ireland.”
“Us, in Ireland!”—throwing herself back. “You have no more to say to Ireland than the parrot or your terrier. By the way, why did you import him?”
“I was lonesome like.”
“I believe he has chased the housekeeper’s best cat; and that cat is a personage, I can assure you.”
“I’m sorry; but he was always a terror for cats.”
“What a funny expression!”
“Well, when I’m too funny entirely, will you, for the love of goodness, give me a wink or a pinch. I know I just talk like the purest commonality—I’m not fit to be a lady.”
“You can’t help yourself; you are a lady.”
“I’m better than I was, thanks be to Miss Usher; she made me read aloud to her every day. Now, do tell me, when are you going to be married to my cousin?”
“Most probably never—though it would be a splendid match for me.”
“Then why not give in to it?”
“I expect there would be two words to the bargain. Dudley is in no hurry; he knows his value, and that he could marry almost any girl in England. Perhaps he may take it into his head to marry you! I’m sure your father would fall in with that arrangement.”
“And what about me?”
“Oh, you! It would be like a political marriage; you’d have to consider yourself highly honoured. He is the most fastidious creature I’ve ever seen.”
“Tell me some more about him,” urged Joseline, suddenly sinking on to the big white rug, and clasping her arms around her knees.
“Yes, with pleasure, if you will wait till I light a fresh cigarette.”
“But you have smoked two already,” remonstrated her companion.
“Oh, that’s nothing”—carelessly striking a match. “Why, mother smokes dozens a day, although the doctors have forbidden her to smoke at all, she has such a weak heart; and they declare she will kill herself, but she does not believe them. As for Dudley, he has been in the army—the Duke’s Lancers; he was out in South Africa, and got enteric, and nearly died; he is awfully faddy about his health, and takes a real interest in his tongue and his temperature; then, he is shockingly flattered and run after, for, besides being heir to the pater, he has a big property in mines, which, needless to say, he never goes near; he is supposed to have tremendous taste in some ways, and sets fashions—he was the first man to wear a silk muffler with the point outside, and to lunch at his club on bread and milk. Now I hear that bread and milk is the rage!”
“And what else does he do besides eating slops?”
“Oh, he travels, and motors, and shoots, and sleeps, and nurses himself, and says nasty, cynical things—and sometimes does kind ones. He is rather decent—the earl likes him; by all the laws of propriety he ought to hate his heir, but they get on capitally; they neither of them talk much; they just sit and smoke, or walk and smoke. Dudley is accustomed to be talked to and amused; you see, he is a great catch.”
“Does he flirt, or play, as you call it?”
“Yes; but only with married women.”
Joseline stared; her face expressed shame and disapproval.
“Oh, my dear little lambkin, it’s all right. No scandal! Just a few dresses, and a kiss or two.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No, but you will, darling. Now tell me, between ourselves, have you ever had a real lover?”
No answer. Joseline’s eyes fell, and her colour rose.
“Look here, we will exchange experiences. I will tell you my secrets; you shall reveal yours. Come now; has a man ever kissed you?”
Joseline’s colour increased, and crept up to her temples.
“Ah, ha! I see! Oh, your face is a shocking telltale!”
“Then it’s telling a big lie!” she protested with energy.
“It looks to me like the truth. Some one has kissed you. Come now, own up!”
“If I do, you will swear”—and she rose to her knees, and leant against the sofa—“to keep my secret?”
“Yes, I swear—a million times over!”
“Well—I’ve no call to be ashamed; it was six years ago, and I was only a slip of a thing; but a man did kiss me, and I kissed him”—a pause—“through a pane of glass!”
Tito sat erect, stared incredulously, and burst into a scream of laughter; it rang through the room, peal after peal. At that moment Lady Grizel appeared in the doorway, where she stood for a moment in startled silence.
“Why, Tito, you have nearly drowned the luncheon gong!” she said. “What is the joke?”
Tito, still gasping for breath, scrambled off the sofa and replied: “The best joke I’ve heard for years!” and drying her eyes, she repeated, “The best I’ve heard for years! I must refer you to Joseline!”
But Joseline had already sprung to her feet, and fled.